Passion
by Archedes
Summary: Elizabethan AU: Love and Passion are beautiful, but fleeting. It can be difficult at times to differentiate them. And sometimes, they never really bloom at all. It was a game of emotions; one they were both much too proud to lose at. LarxeneMarluxia
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: -** Elizabethan AU: Love and Passion are beautiful, but fleeting. It can be difficult at times to differentiate them. And sometimes, they never really bloom at all. It was a game of emotions; one they were both much too proud to lose at. LarxeneMarluxia

So this one-shot evolved into a two-shot, which may or may not evolve into a three-shot. Did I mention I was horrible at short stories? Oh well. I rather like this one. It was fun to write, although I strayed a bit from the "plot" of the poems in lieu of keeping Marluxia from teh dredded OOC. Cheers! My first AU!

**Fact: **Please don't sue me. I r poor. The poem lines are from "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe and "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" by Sir Walter Raleigh. You could probably find some relation to _Pride and Prejudice_ in here, too. So yeah: Jane Austen.

**Passion**

"_The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing_

_For thy delight each May morning;_

_If these delights thy mind may move,_

_Then live with me and be my love."_

Rumors had been floating around the little farming village for nearly a month now. A newcomer, such was the word on the streets, was coming to live out in the rustic countryside, on a small plantation just to the north that was owned by one of the richest men in the country. A newcomer, the women whispered to one another as they sat together on their wooden porches, from the _City_. It was big news indeed, for anyone having to do with the City was, without a doubt, bound to be sophisticated and well-dressed, carrying tales of exciting overseas adventures in their traveling trunks. The maidens of marrying age swooned, imagining dashing gentlemen in groomed black coats and spotless black top-hats, arriving in two-horse-drawn carriages to sweep them away to a life of wealth and bliss. It was uncommon for people to move _to_ a village, in opposition to _from_ it; the rebirth of science and art was well underway, drawing individuals of all backgrounds to the prosperity of the city and its newly-established middle class.

Such fascination was unhealthy and obscene, argued the men of the village, most of whom visited the City on a daily basis and found it lacking in both magic and beauty (regardless of the fact that they themselves lacked the funds to uproot their families and migrate there, no matter how much they secretly wished to). Marluxia, a young shepherd with a penchant for romanticism himself, endured the badmouthing of city folk for the sole amusement of observing jealous farmers, whose backwater ways had long-since ceased to delight their respective wives and lovers. The women lived and breathed country: why should it, unlike everything else, retain its charm?

"Damn city-dwellers ain't never had an honest day's work in their lives," the smithy, Cid, proclaimed over his tea, on the day on the newcomer's supposed arrival. In truth, the bad-tempered man had been in a Mood long before he had arrived (his wife Shera had sweetly informed, while toting a pair of threateningly sharp knitting needles, all of the bartenders and inn-keepers in the village to refuse her husband anything alcoholic until after five in the evening).

"Neither have you," Xigbar, a traveling fur trapper, snorted, downing his mug of mead in one gulp, much to Cid's frustration and envy.

Four men were sitting in the lesser of two inns that their town had to offer: a "shithole" (as dubbed by Xigbar) known simply as the Seventh Heaven, which was owned and run by an elderly fellow named Migelo, who had leathery skin and little, round green eyes. Two young men, Kytes and Vaan, helped him run the shop (although the latter was more often seen courting girls and harassing sailors than doing any actual work). The questionable state of hygiene, however, had never stopped them from returning there, dutifully at the end of each week, to complain about whatever it was their women were infatuated with at the time. The flavor of the month, as it were, was the newcomer, whom was already vastly disliked by the majority of the resident male population, that was due to arrive before the day was out. Marluxia never much cared for the time-honored tradition, yet felt himself at a loss of what to do once his flock was settled in for the night, and therefore never failed to arrive. His mother used to say that idleness was poison to men, but Marluxia wasn't sure if hanging around a bunch of swarthy, inebriated bigmouths was any better.

"Well, you can make quite the assumption of the quality of the man just by the fact that he will be staying with _Rufus Shinra_," Luxord offered with a shark grin. He was a former city man himself, yet his gambling ways and widower status had repelled the attention of the inquisitive village women and solidified his acceptance into the town's ragtag "He-man Woman Hater Club" (which Marluxia affectionately used to refer to their weekly gatherings).

Rufus Shinra was the duke of the county, rich and pompous as they came, yet he discovered a profound beauty in the rural and unpopulated areas surrounding the village and chose to build his giant manor a few miles away. His wife, Elena, associated with the women of the town only for the lack of "sophisticated company", and could safely be assumed as the originator of the aforementioned rumors. A not-so-even tempered lily-haired duchess, Mrs. Shinra was much more down-to-earth than many other noblewomen, and was beloved by the men and women of the village alike (much more so than her husband, anyway).

"_KYTES! GETCHUR ASS OUT HERE, BOY!_" Cid shouted loudly, much to the annoyance of his companions. The smithy had been counting the seconds to five, his blue eyes glued obsessively to the thin golden hand of his pocket-watch.

Kytes, quite used to the unpleasantness that was Cid's personality, muttered under his breath, "Keep your pants on, old man," as he walked out from the back room, carrying a dented metal mug full of beer that was reserved explicitly for Cid Highwind (who, it should be noted, had a tendency to break all objects that were made of anything weaker than tempered steel while drunk).

"Why don't you have a cup or two, Marluxia?" Xigbar offered, a mischievous gleam in his only-remaining gold eye. The story behind his many facial scars and missing optic could, at some point, have been attributed to a bear attack, yet the hunter's tale seemed to change every time he told it, so one could never be sure.

"Not today, Xigbar," the shepherd replied noncommittally, fingering the straw hat that sat in his lap. It seemed to be a running gag among the He-men to, at any and every time possible, taunt Marluxia's straightedge approach to alcohol. The sport was in vain, however, for the young man would only smile and politely decline their [many] loaded offers. Xigbar rolled his eye and—for once—didn't press the matter, murmuring something about "effeminate pansy-asses" as he tended to his own drink. Marluxia, unruffled, merely admired the fact that the trapper knew what "effeminate" meant.

"_GUUUUUUUUUUYS!_" a long, drawn-out cry drifted, suddenly, through the inn's open door, vastly preceding its owner. Vaan skidded into the inn, his pale eyes alight with wonder and excitement. At his call, Old Man Migelo ambled out from one of the back rooms, his cane tapping smartly on the hardwood floor.

"Where's the fire?" Cid muttered with a glare, his mug hovering almost possessively close to his mouth. It was a wasted precaution: there was neither a man nor beast within a hundred miles foolish enough to try and get between Cid Highwind and alcohol.

"The stranger is here." Breathless, Vaan's attention jumped to his friend. "C'mon Kytes!"

Together, the two boys fled from the inn. Migelo merely chuckled, taking a labored seat on one of the barstools. "Aren't you coming, Migelo?" Marluxia asked as he and the He-men prepared to leave, figuring they might as well get a look at the man who was to become Public Enemy Number One.

"I am old," he said with a crinkled smiled. "I am sure Vaan and Kytes will have plenty to tell me when they return."

Judging by the sheer brutishness of the resident male population, the statement was quite true. A brawl was bound to break out, and Marluxia—in one of his occasional bouts of sadism—was more than happy to tag along.

"_If all the world and love were young,_

_And truth in every shepherd's tongue,_

_These pretty pleasures might me move_

_To live with thee and be thy love."_

The village was thoroughly twitter-pated by the time the four men left the inn and wandered into the Town Square. Crowds of people flooded the dirt streets, and the top of an elegant white carriage could be seen above the many scraggly heads. As they elbowed their way to the front ("Watch it, Highwind!" "Go pound salt up your ass, Wallace!"), Marluxia caught sight of two royal guards, unmistakable in their bright red coats and shined black boots. He broke away from the He-men and maneuvered his way over to a familiar face. The village's only apothecary looked down his nose at the shepherd as he approached, his personalized stand-in for a proper greeting.

"How goes things, Vexen?" Marluxia asked politely, thinking that the distaste between them was mutual. The scientist, however, was not one to sully his respectable(?) name by being outwardly rude in public.

"Passable," the blonde man sniffed. "Honestly, all of this noise over a _foreigner_—" He interjected with a sneer, "—is absolutely preposterous!"

"Then why are you here?"

"W-why… For purely scientific purposes, of course!" Vexen blustered, sending the shepherd a series of furious, offended Looks. Marluxia's mere presence was enough to reduce the apothecary to unintelligible, angry single-syllables (much to the pink-haired man's secret delight).

"Move aside! Make way!" one of the guards, a battle-worn man with a severe frown, shouted, brandishing a black nightstick as he struggled to part the crowd. The other guard, who looked nearly identical to the first excepting only in the length of their hair, watched with muted amusement from where he stood beside the door to the carriage, having realized the futility in trying to bring the rowdy locals to order.

"Get that fucking thing out of my face!" Marluxia heard Xigbar snarl, batting the nightstick away from his body. The guard, who had half a head on the trapper, grabbed him by his collar.

"And so even the lowest of this village's mongrels prove themselves unable to behave properly in the presence of aristocracy," Vexen commented as Xigbar punched the guard square in the nose, sending the two to the ground in a violent scuffle. Marluxia grunted noncommittally, pleased to have been present for such a testosterone-fueled display. It made the arrival of the mysterious newcomer all the more interesting.

The sound of hoof beats filled the air as a convoy of three stallions—pure-bred and well endowed, with rippling pelts and muscled legs—and one rider less mare parted the sea of peasants, the Shinra insignia marking their riders like skulls on ships' flags. The fight resolved itself in a hurry, for the notoriety of the Turks—Rufus and his family's personal guard—was known by even the thickest and most reclusive of yokels. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of Xigbar's mouth, a red slash intersecting the downward curve of his lips. The royal guard's nose was gushing crimson, guaranteeing Vexen at least one patient that evening.

"Might want to get that looked at, Gabranth," one of the Turks, a cocky, red-headed lout, called from his steed. "Xigbar has a mean left hook."

The injured guard merely glowered. The soldier at the lead, a dark-haired, serious-looking man, gestured toward the other escort. "Good to see you again, Basch. I take it your trip went well?"

Basch gave a forced smile. "As well as to be expected. She has refused to leave the carriage until you arrived."

"She's been in a foul mood ever since we departed from Radiant Garden," Gabranth added, his voice muffled by the handkerchief he had procured from an inner pocket. In a display of either extreme bravery or extreme foolishness, Xigbar had remained at the front of the crowd, dissatisfied with the way his fight had ended.

_She?_ Marluxia, even more intrigued than before, strained to catch a glimpse of the passenger in the carriage. "Traverse Town welcomes you." The lead Turk nodded before turning to face the other soldier, a dark-skinned man who had not uttered a word since arriving. "Rude, if you would be so kind."

A rather large man whose biceps were bigger than most people's necks, Rude turned his steed to face the crowd. He cleared his throat and ordered, quite plainly, as he adjusted a leather glove: "Move." The great mass of villagers parted—with a combination of annoyed, wondering, and fearful expressions—to allow a path large enough to accommodate five Shinra Seniors and their individual egos. Or, more accurately, several white carriages. "Do you know who it is?" Marluxia asked Vexen without facing him, waiting impatiently for the guards to open the gold-embroidered door.

"One of Lady Elena's relatives," Vexen replied, busying himself with dusting his already-immaculate doublet, feeling rather superior for having procured this one bit of knowledge. As the only doctor in the village, he was frequently called upon for royal house-calls, often hearing news of the aristocratic world through the maids at Shinra Manor. "A cousin, if I'm not mistaken."

Basch, the guard with the longer hair, folded down the footplate with a practiced speed, straightening with perfect posture to grip the handle of the door. "Without further ado: Lady Larxene, of Radiant Garden," he introduced simply and without gusto as he opened it, revealing a cabin of dark purple velvet and white curtained windows. Gabranth scrambled up at once, holding out a hand. A pale, light green-clad arm extended out of the dark carriage and gripped the guard's. A woman wearing an intricate, jewel-embroidered gown stepped out, rich green petticoats matching the sleeves of her bodice, a grand, ruffled white collar encircling an elegant white neck. A vast change overcame the crowd: the women breathing sighs of disappointment and envy, the men perking up, eyes rounding in awe.

Lady Larxene's was a severe beauty, her face pale, high cheekbones emphasizing shocking green eyes. Her thin, pink lips curled up in a predatory grin as she noticed the attention of the villagers. Marluxia, who was a man content with dying a bachelor, felt a tangible, uncharacteristic pull toward her. Something about her harsh beauty set her apart from the local maids. "Unwed, as it were," Vexen's voice came from the side, sounding thoroughly uninterested and borderline disapproving. "Rather old for it, if you ask me. Rumor has it that she once had a fiancé. Supposedly, he died during a thunderstorm. Heaven knows why he was _outside_ during such a thing."

"How long ago?"

"Almost six months past. You'd think she'd be wearing a veil or something." The doctor scowled.

"Perhaps it was arranged. She may not have liked him," Marluxia returned idly, watching intently as the two guards helped Larxene up onto the mare.

"Perhaps." Vexen sounded unconvinced, as was usually the case. He was a rather paranoid man, suspicious of all people ranging from the random street urchin to his own mother.

"The duchess, your cousin, sends her apologies: the road to the manor is not yet equipped for carriages," the Turk captain said as she adjusted her gown side-saddle.

"Of course it isn't." Larxene smiled silkily, the venom in her voice unheeded by all save for Marluxia. It was intriguing, to encounter a member of the upper class who didn't bother to hide their pettiness and unpleasantries behind an ornate mask of social sophistication and etiquette. The impossibility of possession made her all the more interesting to the shepherd. And, of course, there was the title to consider. As a relative of the great Rufus Shinra, son of the king and second-in-line to the crown (many a subject were relieved that the more benign Lazard Shinra was born first), there was no doubt quite a position to be had by marrying Lady Larxene.

The villagers dispersed after the convoy left, the murmurings ranging from the subject of evil sirens to the lack of decent men in Traverse Town. The men, however, were ultimately rather pleased with the turn of events, looking forward to suppers free of gossip about handsome young lads for the first time in weeks. Basch and Gabranth, the latter of whom kept sending furtive glances in Xigbar's general direction, climbed up onto wide-set perch of the carriage. A snap of the reigns ushered any remaining peasants out of the horses' path, and they were off. The trapper spat disdainfully in their general direction, with Cid giving a consummate nod of approval. Luxord's attention (for he was never far from his two cohorts) found its way to Marluxia and Vexen, the latter of whom he a cheeky grin upon.

The doctor upturned his nose, sparing the shepherd a short "good-bye," before sauntering away; no doubt to count his chemicals and make sure his apprentice hadn't pocketed anything in Vexen's absence. Marluxia then made his way back over to the He-men, a bemused expression on his face. The gambler gave him a precursory once-over and said, "I've never known you to associate with _his_ sort," which was punctuated by a pointed head-jerk in the direction of the apothecary.

"He tends to be more knowledgeable about Shinra's affairs," Marluxia replied smoothly. Cid came up from the side, slinging a grimy arm around the pink-haired man's shoulders, a lit cigarette dangling from his jaunty smile.

"Don't get too attached to that blonde woman," he warned good-naturedly, slugging the shepherd in the shoulder. Marluxia resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose: the smithy's hygiene was just as questionable (if not more) than the Seventh Heaven's. Not to mention the alcohol hot on his breath. "A lady like that'll flog you bloody before she ever let you court 'er."

"First-hand experience?"

"Smartass. You remember that small lass? Whatsherface? Auburn hair, nice brown eyes? Easy on the eyes, but none too womanly?"

"Cissnei?" Luxord offered mildly, hands in his pockets. The streets had cleared entirely save for those four. Night was beginning to fall at a swift pace, and it wouldn't be long until the four men parted ways. It was still early evening, yet the last time they had stayed out late, they had been treated to a bucketful of ice-cold water thrown over their heads for their trouble. For a village low on children, it was very intolerant of any sort of rabble-rousing.

"Right! Cissnei! You remember, Xigbar? Dintcha say somethin' fresh to her and she smacked you right upside the head?" Cid, having disentangled himself from Marluxia, sidled over to the hunter. Xigbar stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Yeah, you had quite the shiner," Luxord said with a chuckle. "Went around telling everyone you got it fighting the same bear who took your eye."

Marluxia, who had a fairly reliable recollection of this debacle, looked back upon it fondly. Xigbar, the self proclaimed bachelor, had said something lewd to the local midwife's daughter, a bronze-haired doll by the name of Cissnei. However, she had grown up with five older brothers and was substantially hardier than most girls, and had not hesitated in letting Xigbar know quite physically how she felt about his comment. The "shiner" took up half of the trapper's face, a purplish smudge across his good eye and stretching all the way down to his jaw. Marluxia's sympathetic response was something along the lines of: "You're lucky she didn't go for your man bits." He had no reservations about reminding the wild one-eyed man.

"Aw, shuddup," Xigbar scowled. "Ain't it your bedtime or somethin', kid? Being ambiguous has gotta take it outta you."

Marluxia nodded serenely and despite the insult, rather grateful the dark-haired man had provided him with a reason to escape the group's company. "Indeed. I will see you tomorrow, fellows." Tipping the brim of his straw hat with a hooked thumb, the shepherd took off toward the field where his flock was waiting to be taken in for the night. Sparse farewells chorused from behind him, although he didn't pay them any mind.

You see, Marluxia had a determination uncommon of others in his line of profession. Once he set his sights on something, he was not above all manner of scheming in order to get it. And right now, more than anything, Marluxia was thinking of a certain blonde-haired lady with a sharp tongue and even sharper personality. The gains were quite desirable: a lovely, intelligent wife and a title. Uncountable wealth and position. Of course he never intended on remaining a shepherd _forever_. Careful choreography would be needed, and the odds were severely against him.

But that had never stopped Marluxia before.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: -** Elizabethan AU: Love and Passion are beautiful, but fleeting. It can be difficult at times to differentiate them. And sometimes, they never really bloom at all. It was a game of emotions; one they were both much too proud to lose at. LarxeneMarluxia

After a long absence, I have recently reread the first part and decided to pick this up again. Cheers for unexpected and extremely belated updates! I sincerely apologize for any writing-style discrepancies. And even though they called her Nelly, I still had major _Wuthering Heights_ flashbacks as I wrote this. I also rather like this 'verse, so I might consider using it in other stories after this one.

Zexion: stalker or master spy? You decide.

**Fact: **Please don't sue me. I r poor. The poem lines are from "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe and "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" by Sir Walter Raleigh. You could probably find some relation to _Pride and Prejudice_ in here, too. So yeah: Jane Austen.

* * *

**Passion**

"_There will I make thee beds of roses_

_And a thousand fragrant posies,_

_A cap of flowers, and a kirtle_

_Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle."_

Marluxia's first order of business, he mused the next morning as he took his flock out to pasture, was arranging a meeting with the fair lady. He himself had not a dash of hope of calling on Larxene and expecting a more hospitable welcome than being forcibly removed by the Turks. Marluxia would need help from a person on the inside; someone who could fabricate a reason for the shepherd to enter the manor, where—if Fate, as Luxord would say, was on his side—he would encounter the lady. He was confident that he needed but fifteen minutes to speak to her; confident, still, that if he could arouse her interest (and he was sure he would), she herself would invite him back and inadvertently aid his scheme.

Fortunately, Marluxia knew just the man for the job.

"The doctor is very busy," the disinterested boy sitting outside of the apothecary said when he spotted the pink-haired man. With shaggy locks of blue and a small nose buried in a book, the child spared the newcomer no second glances. "Unless you are in immediate danger of dying, he has asked not to be disturbed." He spoke as if he were twenty years older and wiser.

"I'm afraid it's terribly important," Marluxia said, taking off his hat.

The boy looked up and fixed him with an impatient stare, obviously wanting nothing more to do with him and sincerely wishing the shepherd would disappear. Pale eyes matched pale face. He put his book aside and carefully got to his feet: either his body was as delicate as his actions suggested, or he was simply reluctant to move and spiting Marluxia with his sluggishness. The pink-haired man refrained from narrowing his eyes by a great show of will and temperance, quite sure that Vexen would be unlikely to help if Marluxia throttled his apprentice.

Leading the way into the apothecary, the boy was assaulted by a loud scolding upon opening the door to a room containing an operating table. "Confound it, boy! Did I not tell you that I was to receive no interruptions today?" Vexen swore from where he stood hunched over the table. His back was to them, still unaware of the pink-haired man. "This had better be important, Zexion, or I've half a mind to whip you."

Zexion appeared unconcerned with the threat, and merely stated, "The shepherd is here, sir. Says it's important, and wouldn't let me be until I took him to see you." It was a blatant untruth, but the boy seemed to take some small joy from the tightness that entered the doctor's shoulders upon his utterance of Marluxia's presence.

Vexen turned abruptly, an irritated spark glinting in his green eyes. "_What_ in the name of Newton could you possibly want?" he all but snarled. A brusque "get out" was thrown at Zexion before the doctor returned his attention to the table.

Marluxia entered the room and peeked over the apothecary's shoulder, spotting the desecrated corpse of some small mammal fallen victim to Vexen's scientific curiosity. "I need your help."

"Give me one good reason why I would ever do anything for you, _shepherd_." Now that they were alone, Vexen's bad humor was unrestrained, deviated only a little by the dissection.

Marluxia, who was quite expectant of this sort of response, smiled to himself. "If you help me with this small project of mine, I am prepared to waive the price of this month's fleece. I understand you use it to staunch bleeding?"

The wool from the pink-haired man's sheep was the best in the area: with a smooth, thick texture that was not prone to tearing. He had a respectably-sized stash of gold concealed beneath the floorboards under his bed, testament to the wool's usefulness in the areas of medicine and weaving. Marluxia had even once been called upon by a fairly renowned upholsterer interested in creating cushions for the queen using the fleece from the shepherd's flock. Needless to say, it was quite valuable: so much so that it had gotten to the point where Marluxia could very well afford being choosy with his customers.

Vexen turned to face him once more, a dark look shadowing his thin face. He wouldn't put it past that damned shepherd to cut off his supply completely should the good doctor refuse him. "Very well…" the apothecary finally spat, violently sticking his scalpel in the animal's corpse before walking over to the basin. He went on, tone displeased, as he washed his hands: "What could drive you to seek _me_, pray tell?"

"Lady Larxene. I would like you to arrange an audience with her for me."

"W-what? Are you mad?"

"Some would say so."

"Whatever makes you think that a refined woman such as she would even _think_ about lowering herself to talk to someone like you?" Vexen dried his hands with quick, angry movements, until his skin looked raw and red. Marluxia was idly peering through the many pickled jars decorating the room, sitting sinisterly on wooden shelves as their contents floated freely. Hearts, livers, spleens, uteri, the list went on: all trophies of the doctor's medicinal prowess. The largest organ of all was taken from a bear, the bulbous stomach pressing up against the glass in certain places. Marluxia looked neither interested nor disinterested, which infuriated Vexen. The shepherd's lack of appreciation for science was shameful.

"I will deal with that myself, _after_ you set up the meeting," said Marluxia without turning, running a pale finger along a jar containing the preserved spines of several hummingbirds.

"And how do you suppose I do that?" Vexen snapped. "It's not like I possess the status to call upon the duke or his guests whenever I please!"

"You're a smart man, Vexen." The pink-haired man finally pulled himself away from the shelves, and fixed the apothecary with a silky smile. His voice was slick with blarney and raw condescension. Vexen's eye twitched. "I'm sure it isn't beneath you to fabricate some sort of medical emergency."

"And what sort of 'medical emergency'—" The quotes were practically tangible as Vexen snarled the words, "—would require a shepherd's presence?"

Marluxia shrugged indifferently, dropping his hat onto his head as he stepped out of the room. Vexen followed him, despising the other man with every fiber of his being. If the doctor was forced to import wool from another village, it would mean ceasing all dissections and possibly firing Zexion. The boy was a terrific little brat, but he had an immeasurable note of value about him that Vexen could not hope to find in any of the other louts his age. Marluxia had him strung by the toes, with no qualms about dropping the blonde man into the crevice the shepherd was dangling him above. "Figure it out. I'm sure that diploma you received from Port Royal is worth _something_."

Vexen watched hatefully as Marluxia walked out into the pre-noontime air, gracing him with a self-indulgent smile before heading off in the direction of the fields. On the steps just below him, Zexion read his book, very aware of how ruffled his mentor was. Naturally, he had heard the entire exchange between the two adults, with an uncharacteristically interested ear pressed to the door. Marluxia's footfalls were fluid and purposeful, but not silent, giving the boy plenty of time to return to his post to evade detection. However, what bothered him the most was the way the shepherd _smirked_ at him as he left the apothecary, as if he had known all along about Zexion's nosiness. As if he had counted on it.

Vexen seized the small boy's arm and hauled him to his feet, unconcerned as the secondhand book's spine cracked on the stair as it fell. "If that man comes here unannounced ever again, you will _not_ oblige him. Understand?" The doctor shook him on the last word, unable to resist relieving some of his frustration on the one person who could not fight back.

"…Yes, sir." Zexion glowered at him from behind his bangs as Vexen released him and stormed back into the clinic. He rescued his book from the ground, cursing under his breath as the pages fluttered free of its broken spine. Two months of scrounging and saving flew away in the mild autumn breeze.

"A medical emergency, hm?" the boy murmured to himself, sitting down to watch the leafs of paper somersault into the sky, his scowl slowly turning into a smirk. "Now…what to do about _that_?"

"_Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,_

_Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies_

_Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten—_

_In folly ripe, in reason rotten."_

"Prince—I mean, _King_—Lazard's coronation was rather lovely, wasn't it?" Elena asked conversationally. She had thrown a small fete to celebrate the safe arrival of her younger sister, and now, hours later, the two women were finally able to sit and relax in the duchess' personal drawing room. The older blonde woman bounced a gurgling baby girl in her lap, the tiny thing's rich brown hair tugged into a pretty braid. Larxene _hmm_'d. "Not nearly as nice as Daddy's was, of course."

Larxene smiled without joy. It was sad, she realized, that her sister had to fill her days with frivolous gossip now that she had lost her title and land. Being demoted from princess to duchess hurt, and Larxene was still burning with rage even now, eight years later. Larxene, who was not fortunate enough to even _receive_ a consolatory title such as 'duchess'.

King Raminas B'nargin was sole sovereign over the state of Dalmasca for fifty long years before Death laid its claim on him. He had had three daughters with his wife, who had died of consumption shortly after giving birth to the third. At the time a waning old man with neither a spouse nor an heir, Raminas was forced to marry his daughters to foreign princes, and pray to any deities with an ounce of mercy that his relatives would produce a male in time. The eldest, Princess Ashelia, was married off to Prince Lazard Shinra at the age of seventeen. Not two years later, King Raminas died, and Dalmasca came under Shinra's rule. Shinra's wife Ifalna—the once-heir to the throne of Icicle whose kingdom suffered a similar fate—arranged for Raminas' second daughter, Elena, to marry their younger son Rufus in an effort to provide for the deceased king's daughters.

Larxene, the third, was left in the care of King Rasler of Nabradia—a distant cousin. She was only ten at the time, but fully understood that she had been slighted of her birthright by the Hand of Fate. Except, she was not pleased with that, and instead decided to blame King Shinra and both of his damnable offspring. And to this day, King Lazard still felt uneasy whenever he and she were in the same room, and Duke Rufus constructed a plethora of excuses to _avoid_ such an unfortunate situation as the one aforementioned.

"Ashe's would have been nicer." Larxene's dark words were overshot by her sunny smile and jovial tone. That threw Elena off for a moment, before the older woman sighed and patted her sister's hand knowingly. The toddler on her lap giggled, which only served to further irritate Larxene. Why Elena had even bothered procreating was beyond her: Rufus had no need for heirs, Lazard's son had safely locked out any of the younger brother's claims to the throne.

"I'm sure it—oh Marlene, don't pull on that!" The brown-eyed baby tugged happily on the cord of Elena's corset, smiling and laughing like the imbecile it was. Larxene despised it, but not _nearly_ as much as Rufus' _other_ brat, who had the unfortunate consequence of looking exactly like her father.

"Where's Naminé?" Larxene asked sweetly, hoping beyond hope that the girl had fallen into some hole somewhere in a place easily accessible by hungry bandersnatches.

"Oh, she's staying with Lazard and Ashe for now. She and Roxas are getting along famously. At least _someone_ isn't betrothed to a person they have no chance of loving." Elena's words were both relieved and grateful that her older daughter had managed to take a liking to Lazard's son.

"Ah, Ellie, are you insinuating that you do not love Rufus?" Larxene laughed, waving her hand in a dismissive manner as if she had heard incorrectly.

"Not at all," Elena replied, equally lighthearted. Her earlier statement, though, was not entirely true: it had taken six years and a child later for Princess Ashe to develop feelings for Lazard. "Speaking of which, what about _you_? When do you plan on getting married?"

"Now, now Ellie. I'm still young—" She was eighteen and time was running out, but just not damn fast enough for her liking, "—and besides, I'm still mourning over poor Cloud." Prince Cloud, the ill-fated son of Rasler who had been tragically struck by lightning only a few months earlier.

"You've gotten cruel in your old age," Elena commented with a slight frown. Larxene waved her off once more.

"Pay it no mind, Ellie. I'm just playing." The lie slipped out easily, carelessly; but the duchess had no qualms with accepting it.

One of the maids entered the room, bowing slavishly as she approached the two women. It cheered Larxene up substantially. "Priscilla! Long time no see, my dear!" she crooned, much to the servant's dismay.

Priscilla smiled, but raging fear was lit in her dark eyes. She unconsciously edged toward Elena, all the while mentally cursing her awful luck. The servants had drawn straws as to who would bring the ill message to the duchess, and upon taking the smallest of the sticks, Priscilla's fate was sealed. "My lady," she addressed Elena reverently. She was a kindly mistress, who had her occasional moods: unlike her younger sister, whose poor moods were never-changing except when they got worse.

"What is it?" Elena asked irritably. "Can't you see that I am trying to catch up with my sister?"

"Sincerest apologies, m'lady, but Doctor Vexen just stopped by with some terrible news."

"Get on with it, would you?" Larxene cut in, taking pleasure from the way the small maid flinched at the sound of her voice.

"He says that a local shepherd has recently contacted him, and confided in him a fear that this month's wool might have been infested with Ci-Cy-Cimi—bugs, ma'am. The doctor requests that the shepherd be allowed to investigate the manor while he checks you and the lord and the children—and your sister, of course—for disease. He says it is terribly urgent, m'lady." Priscilla seemed nervous, her eyes darting from the duchess' feet to the various fabrics located around the room. She had made many of the blankets and bedclothes—out of the wool, no less—and feared being blamed should anyone fall ill.

"Well what are you waiting for?" Elena got to her feet, clutching Marlene close to her breast. "Send them in!"

"Straightaway, Your Eminence!" The poor girl was only too happy to bow out of the room. Larxene nodded in approval, before relocating her hawkish gaze to her younger niece. How lovely would it be if she contracted some sort of horribly painful, pus-creating, flesh-eating disease? Then, perhaps, the fair-haired vixen's new home would not constantly be filled with the shrill squealing of such a tiny beast.

Elena immediately noticed her sister's attention, and something akin to guilt entered her eyes. Apparently she mistook the other woman's gaze for a thing completely different than the repulsion it was. The duchess lowered herself back onto the plush Agraban divan, biting her tender pink lip in bemusement. "I've been simply out of sorts lately, I'm afraid," she admitted a little absentmindedly, eyes locked on the countryside that sprawled attractively outside of a nearby window.

"It's a wonder you can find the motivation to even quit bed in the morning, what with the darling troll you are tasked to lie with."

"You go too far!"

She smiled insincerely. "I apologize, then."

Elena sighed, a look of desolate helplessness overcoming her previously gay countenance. "You are my sister, are you not? And I can confide in you wholeheartedly and without any doubts of you betraying me, yes?"

Interest undeniably piqued, Larxene schooled her expression into one of polite curiosity and a concern that was expected of kin. "Why, of course, Ellie! You should not even have to ask!"

The older woman's lovely brown eyes dropped to her daughter, and the little girl met the attention with a pleased chirp and a pearly smile. That simple motion alerted Larxene immediately, and perhaps she could have guessed her sister's secret. "Tseng," was all Elena offered, and the other woman understood. It brought a twinkle to her eye. But it was not to be further expounded, for a loud shouting drifted through the doors, and Elena jumped to her feet. It was Rufus, and he was not pleased. The duchess bestowed upon the other woman a look of both apology and distress before fleeing the room. Larxene herself wondered what should happen if the good duke woke up mysteriously not-alive the next morning.

These thoughts were interrupted by a crash from the next room, through the Dragon doors and out on the balcony. Rising to her feet, she crossed the room in three fluid steps, flinging open the doors to peer out in the noontime sun. A scruffy young lad was in the process of hopping the banister, one foot dangling over the opposite side as the other hung beside an overturned flower pot. On his face was mild panic, but he did not appear to be particularly scared. In fact, upon spotting Larxene, he seemed relieved. Dismounting down onto the ground, taking but a second or two to wipe filthy hands on equally-filthy trousers, he approached her. "Who are you?" Larxene demanded, one pale hand flying to her ornately-embroidered bodice where a knife was concealed. Where she had learned how to wield such a thing, one could not be sure.

The lad raised both of his hands, palms facing her, in an attempt to appear placatory. "I've only come to warn you," he said calmly, with eloquence unbecoming of his age.

Larxene laughed, voice shrill and tinkling. "Of what, pray tell?"

"Of someone who might possibly aim to deceive you. But life is hard, miss, and naturally you understand that information does not come cheap."

"And why should I believe a dirty little street urchin such as you? I think you ought to leave before something…_bad_ happens to you, boy." Lithe fingers toyed idly with the strings of her bodice, caressing the edge of the hidden blade. The child's expression remained skillfully blank and cool.

He had been expecting this, and dismay appeared on Larxene's face as she realized this, green eyes narrowing ever-so. "You have your suspicions, I know it. You aren't as feeble-minded as women ought to be." In another time, his words would have been insulting and eliciting nothing short of castration and defenestration courtesy of the duchess' sister. But she merely smiled a snake's smile, smug and far too cunning. "But Lady Elena is not quite as clever as you; speaking words that oughtn't be spoken. You understand that if the duke were to find out of this, it would mean the death of her and the girl and the knight."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, you little fiend. Be gone! Before I call the Turks!"

"If you do not help me," the boy continued evenly, with the confidence of a skilled puppeteer capable of manipulating puppets that were not his. "Lord Shinra might find a mysterious letter tomorrow evening informing him of his wife's grievous betrayal."

"And what if I just kill you now myself?" The knife sparkled in the sun as she tore it from her, ripped ribbon fluttering as she did not even try to cover where her hasty motions had exposed her surprisingly plain smock.

"The doctor and the shepherd approach as we speak. Would you have the time to cover yourself?"

"You broke in. See that pot you so crudely smashed! You intended to rob my poor sister."

"That might be what your brother-in-law will try to peddle to the people, but the good doctor is a respected man in the village. He will not take kindly to the murder of his apprentice." Vexen was not a caring man, Zexion knew, but he was possessive if nothing else.

Larxene's knuckles turned starch white where she gripped the handle of her knife, lips pressed together in an angry line. After all, riots against the royal family were not all uncommon; and surely Rufus would blame her. "What do you want?" she hissed through gritted teeth, sheathing the blade and stitching it back up beneath her corset.

"Thirty minutes alone with the Codex."

She could not believe what she was hearing. "Are you insane? You expect that I shall be able to just _lend_ you the Shinra genealogy?"

"Those are my terms. Do we have a deal?" Those eyes of him were far too emotionless for her liking: a perfect poker-face concealed behind over-long bangs of blue. This child was far too smart for his own good.

"And what do you expect to do with such a musty old book?"

"That is my business."

Larxene scoffed, desiring nothing more than to punt the puny pipsqueak right off of the balcony and into the stables below. Perhaps he might've even landed in a pile of horse refuse. But it was out of no sense of familial duty that spurred the words that would next issue from the woman's mouth: "Very well. What information do you have for me?" If Elena's extra-curricular activities came to light, there would be civil unrest: those who believed and those who did not. Rufus would not hesitate to execute her, and while he held the true power Elena was better-loved by the people. An attack launched upon the manor would put Larxene's life—as a royal herself—into direct danger. Not even a few fancy knife-tricks could protect her from a mindless mob of angry peasants.

"The shepherd aims to seduce you," he said this with a look of perfect seriousness, and that gave the woman pause. Surely he was having her on! She burst into uproarious laughter, clutching at her breast for want of air. Why, just the mere thought nearly brought her to tears!

"Y-you…" she gasped, struggling to speak through the aftermath of her fit, "…would actually th-think that I wo—hee-hee—would fall prey to the ad-vances of a sh-shepherd?" She giggled again, although this time it was due to the look of irritation that came across the lad's face at not being taken seriously. But really, how could she when he insisted on spouting such nonsense?

"The Codex," he pressed, letting some of the frustration color his words. "Deliver it to me at the apothecary." And with that the boy slung a leg over the banister and dropped, disappearing below.


End file.
